


Offer Gladly

by icarus_chained



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Comfort Sex, Consent, Dreams, Gods, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Dishonored (Video Game), Relationship Negotiation, The Void
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 04:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20522003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: Corvo dreams of Coldridge. All his knowledge that it's done with doesn't help. But the Outsider will have none of that.





	Offer Gladly

The room is cold, and damp, the floor slick where they hose the worst of the mess away. Straps bite into his arms, bound tighter and tighter over the months as his wrists grow thinner, the bones growing ever-sharper against the leather. There is a shape, beside him. A monstrous, looming presence. There’s a thing in its hand that glows red. Red like fire, red like blood. He can feel his breath seizing in his chest. He can feel everything inside him growing tight with dread and despair. He twists, yanking at his arms. Pulling them in their bonds. Friction burns along his wrists, blood seeping from already-torn skin, but they don’t let go. They never let go. The glowing shape moves in. He shrinks, shrinks away, pressing his aching bones and shredded flesh back into the chair, but it doesn’t stop. He can’t stop it. He can never stop it.

The pain is a red, galling ball in the centre of his chest. A bloom of agony, sharp and shredding and searing. He hears his breath whine from him. Not a scream. Not anymore. Just a thin, ragged crying. There’s a sound of something sizzling. There’s a stench of burning flesh.

It’s not real. Some part of Corvo knows it’s not real. He stopped this. He escaped this. Ages ago, months ago. He escaped it. He did. He made it _stop_. It’s not real. It’s a nightmare. He _knows_ it’s not real.

But the shape beside him draws back its arm. Stirs the thing in its hand idly through coals. Ready to go again. Ready to burn and blacken and sear all over again. It’s not real, but it doesn’t stop.

In these dreams, it never—

The brand presses into him again. A line along his collarbone, placed just so with brute precision. He draws breath, a ragged tearing in his throat as it whistles past the pain, and then …

Then silence. Suddenly. Then stillness, and a lack of pain.

The chair vanishes. Melts away beneath him, and Corvo tips forward. Holds out unbound hands, half an instinct staggering to life. He catches himself on hands and knees, the impact jarring through him, but not with pain. There’s no sharp crack of knees on bare concrete. No tear and burn as wounds come open at the jolt. The floor beneath his palms isn’t cold. Isn’t slick with blood and piss and stale water. It isn’t tile, or concrete. It’s stone.

His chest heaves. Gaping, ragged breaths. His heart pounds against his ribs. His head is hanging between his arms, snarls of hair hanging down past his face. Obscuring everything. All he can see is the stone. His hands, fingers cramped and curled, knuckles white, pressing down onto it.

On the back of the left one, black lines gleam. A mark. A mark Coldridge never left on him. A mark he was offered in …

“Corvo,” says a cool, calm voice. Boots appear in his line of sight. They take a moment to touch the stone. Their owner isn’t accustomed to the ground. A knee drops, bringing the being down to his height. His breath hitches again. Freezes in his chest. But the hand that reaches for him isn’t holding anything. As cool and calm as the voice, it does not burn as it lightly cups his cheek. It’s cold, instead. It’s gentle.

He can’t help the sound he makes as he leans into it. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. That’s not what the Outsider is for. But there are phantom brands still burning in his chest. The palm is cool where it cups his cheek, the fingers gentle as they brush his jaw. He closes his eyes, and leans in.

He can hear the whalesong, now. He can hear the soothing, empty chiming of the Void.

“Corvo,” the Outsider says again. Still holding his cheek. Content to let Corvo rest against his hand. “Come now, my dear. Look up. Look at me.”

It could have been chiding. A sneer, an admonishment. Like the guards at Coldridge, a hundred times over. Corvo’s nothing but a ball of human frailty right now, a far cry from the man who’d won back his daughter’s empire. A far cry from the man who’d won the interest of a god. But there’s nothing like that in the Outsider’s voice. The hand does not tighten or move from his cheek.

And he can’t balk, asked so gently. There’s nothing left of him, but he can’t help answering anyway.

There’s the oddest expression on the Outsider’s face, when he pushes himself back onto his knees. When he draws himself up, his bared chest still heaving, his hands shaking at his sides. He is as he was in his dream, Corvo thinks. Almost naked, almost gaunt, his pants stained with piss and blood. Pulled straight from the nightmare, he’s still wearing the marks of it, even in the absence of their pain. Though he would have been anyway, bared like this. Most of them had scarred.

There’s such a look, on the Outsider’s face, as he stares at them. As he draws his eyes along the expanse of Corvo’s bared, quivering skin. It’s not … not anger. Not quite. But it is something hard. Something cold and quiet as the Void.

“There’s no need for this,” the god says quietly. Harshly. “This was done with. The ones who caused it taken away. The one who enacted it destroyed. You don’t have to dwell here any longer.”

And it is … it is sensible. Corvo has to allow that. It’s entirely sensible and correct. This _was_ done with. Even in the midst of the nightmare he’d known it. Campbell and Burrows are gone. He’d killed the torturer himself, stabbed the creature to death in a blind panic when the lure of a rune had dropped him straight into his lair. It’s done. It’s been done for months. He _knows_ that.

He knows it every time his nightmares place him back in that chair. He knows it every time he claws himself awake, bathed in sweat and fingernails tearing bluntly at his scars. He knows it every time he hunches over, curls into himself, and sobs softly and raggedly into his hands.

He knows it’s over with. He _knows_ it. He does.

But the nightmares don’t seem to care.

He doesn’t know how to explain that. He doesn’t know if he _can_. There’s nothing in it to interest a god. He’s sure the Outsider has seen all manner of pain and violence and weakness before. An endless stream of it. He’s seen every back bow and break for thousands of years. Action, strength, that’s something to interest him. Mercy, that’s something to _fascinate_ him, something strange and new, apparently. But this? A man quivering from old pain, shaking apart in months’ old fear? That’s nothing. That’s a story as old as the sea.

He opens his mouth anyway. To … try and explain. To answer. To apologise. Something, anything. The god had pulled him from the dream. Pulled him out, pulled him away. Gratitude alone would have him speak. But his throat is torn and aching still. The words stick. 

And the Outsider moves instead. 

A hand touches Corvo’s cheek again. Just a fingertip, now, then two and three, resting lightly on his skin. A question, Corvo would have said, if he had any idea what a god might want to ask. The Outsider tilts his head, an unreadable expression on his face, in black eyes. When Corvo doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch or flinch, the hand firms against his cheek. Definitely a question now. Corvo stares dumbly at him, and the Outsider scrunches his face in frustration.

Then he leans forwards, knee to knee where Corvo kneels, and presses his lips to Corvo’s own.

Corvo feels his breath freeze in his chest. It … It isn’t fear. Not quite. He doesn’t think. It’s something … There’s silence, suddenly. There’s stillness. Inside him, not the Void. The god’s lips are cool and gentle against his skin. His breath goes still in his chest. His mind goes still behind his eyes. There’s no pain. There’s no fear, and there’s no pain.

He’s not sure how long the kiss continues. He doesn’t … answer it. Can’t bring himself to. Uncertainty claws inside his chest. But the Outsider only looks at him as he draws away. A tilt of his head to show curiosity. A lift of his brows to show amusement.

“Am I unwelcome, then?” the god asks, and there is humour to it. A hint of wryness. His fingertips still brush gently across Corvo’s cheek. Corvo stares at him. Dazed.

“… What?” he whispers. Unmoored. Adrift in stone and Void. “What do you …?”

“There is no more need for pain,” the Outsider interrupts. Though gently. For him. His lips curl. A strange, lopsided smile. “Not here. Not in your dreams, in reach of my Void. If you cannot escape it on your own, my dear Corvo, I can gladly … offer alternative?”

A lilt of his voice. A question, bemused and amused. It’s a strange thought to him, Corvo can see. An odd amusement, an offer more for Corvo’s sake than his own. An alternative. A cool, gentle touch, to draw away the memory of pain. There’s no desire in him, that Corvo can see. There’s no hunger or need. This is as he says it is. An offer.

The thought sits uneasily. Not out of … Not out of a need to be desired. Corvo would not presume. But just … 

“You don’t want,” he rasps. “I wouldn’t. Not if you don’t want.”

He won’t ask that. Not of anyone. 

The god blinks at him, for a long second. And then … then he laughs. Not … not harshly, not in mockery. More startled. More amazed. His head tilts again, a faint, disbelieving smile on his lips. He traces his hand gently across Corvo’s temple.

“Ah, Corvo,” he breathes, still smiling in bemusement. “My gallant friend. Granny Rags was not always blind, you know. Dear Vera. It wasn’t age that robbed her of her sight. If I didn’t want, my dear, I promise you. You would _know_.”

And that … That makes sense. Yes. Of course it does. The Outsider is a _god_. There’s nothing that can force him. Or, if there is, nothing that Corvo wants to meet. Nothing he would ever think to try and command. If the god did not want to be here, then he wouldn’t be. As simple as that.

And yet, that still doesn’t mean …

“It isn’t … _necessary_,” he says. Reaching up to catch the god’s hand at last. To wrap his fingers gently around a narrow wrist, draw those roving fingers to a halt. The god stills thoughtfully. Looks at him. Corvo sits back on his heels and meets those black eyes firmly. He means this. It’s important. He _means_ it. “I … Thank you. For bringing me from the dream. But I don’t … It’s not necessary. If you don’t want it. This … This is enough.”

It is. It really is. To draw him out, to draw him away. To take him out of that place in his head, the trembling, wretched creature he becomes there. It’s enough. It’s … so much more than enough. He wishes he could explain how much so. He doesn’t need anything else. Would never ask.

The Outsider looks at him, for a long, long minute, and there’s something in his expression that makes Corvo think he finally _sees_. That he looks at Corvo, and understands what he means.

That Corvo would never hurt him. That Corvo would never ask beyond his means.

Something passes through the Outsider then. Something sleets across him. There is a look in those black eyes that Corvo has never seen. Not on Jess, not on anyone. Except … Maybe Daud. Maybe for a moment. When there was no hope, no protection left, and still the blade did not fall. There’d been a look in the man’s eyes then. There’s another, just like it, in the Outsider’s now. 

“… I do not desire as mortals do,” the god says finally. Distantly, his voice echoing strangely. “That was taken from me long ago. I do not yearn for flesh. Cannot, I think. Not in four thousand years. But I do … I have never given to anyone what I give to you, Corvo. Many have tried to earn it. Some have tried to take it. But to none of them did I offer it. Only you.”

And Corvo … cannot answer that. Can’t find words, can’t find _meaning_. He wants to say again that the god doesn’t _have_ to. But something traps the words in his throat. Holds them still behind his teeth.

There’s a look in the Outsider’s eyes. A strange, fierce intensity. Not hunger. Not quite. But something … something not far from it.

“I cannot give you desire,” the god whispered. Leaning close, pulling his wrist gently but firmly from Corvo’s grasp. Touching one hand, not to Corvo’s cheek, now, but to his chest. To his collarbone, the phantom brand the nightmare laid there. The burn fades away to a scar, nothing more than would decorate Corvo’s chest in the waking world. The Outsider looks down at it, brushing his thumb across the smooth, raised lines, and then looks up at Corvo. That dark, drowning thing in his eyes. “I cannot offer you love as a human would offer it. But what I _can_ offer, what I _do_ offer … I offer freely. And with _intent_.”

… The Void is still. Silent. The god’s eyes are dark and drowning on him. Corvo can feel his breath heaving in his chest. He can feel everything inside him grow strange and tight. But not … not with despair. Not this time. Not with dread. He can feel … something silvery. Something bright.

“If you ask it,” he says softly. The only thing he can say to explain. “If you asked for anything. I would give it.”

The Outsider stares at him, for another minute. Another eternity. That stark, gaping expression on his face. And then … then it crumbles. Gently. Then it fades. The Outsider laughs at him softly. Presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Liar,” the god murmurs. Fondly. “Such a liar, Corvo. There’s so much you wouldn’t give. Not to me, not to anyone. But it’s all right. I wouldn’t ask anyway.”

He starts to move. Starts to pull away. And Corvo can’t let him. He reaches out. His hands, now. He catches the god at the wrist and the waist. Catches him. Snares him. As gently as he can. The Outsider goes still. The god freezes in his arms, and stares at him.

“I know,” Corvo says. Something bottomless in his voice. He does. He does know. The god’s gifts are given freely. Offered without price, except what the bearer calls down upon themselves. He knows the Outsider wouldn’t ask. It’s why he offers.

“… If you ask it,” he says again. Softly. So softly. “If you ask it. It’s yours.”

And it’s the god who doesn’t answer, now. The god who can’t. For a small eternity. And then …

He cups a hand along Corvo’s jaw. That first touch, that light, gentle thing that drew him near. Cool fingers against his cheek. Corvo leans into it, and the Outsider draws carefully near. Careful. Hesitant. He brushes a thumb beneath Corvo’s eye.

“Am I welcome?” he asks, with that hint of humour. With that touch of wryness. Corvo feels his eyes crease around his smile.

“Yes,” he says. “You are.”

This time, when cool lips press against his own, he opens his mouth, and answers.

It passes strangely. A dream, the strangest dream of his life. There’s a god in his lap. There’s a god who lays him down. Straddles his hips. Kisses with strange intensity across his jaw. Down the length of his throat. Along each and every wound that marrs his skin. They fade, beneath his ministrations. Beneath cool lips and hands. Smoothed away, soothed back into memory. Warmth stirs to meet him in their absence. Sings lazily across Corvo’s skin.

The god touches his trousers. Tilts his head curiously, that odd expression on his face. Amusement, bemusement. Offering. Corvo … hesitates. Cannot ask. Not when the god cannot accept in return. But the Outsider _smiles_ suddenly. A fearsome, terrifying smile, close-lipped and suggestive of _teeth_. His eyes are black and gaping. Far from human. Far from safe.

Something blooms in Corvo’s gut. Something rises in his trousers. _Not_ fear. He throws an arm across his eyes in shame. 

The Outsider laughs. Startled. Amazed. Delighted. His hand sneaks into Corvo’s trousers. His expression, when Corvo moves his arm, is unspeakably fond.

“Ah, Corvo,” he says, moving his hand with worrying skill for a sexless god. “Such a thing you are, my dear. Such a truly perfect thing.”

And Corvo would speak, Corvo would answer, but everything inside him has grown tense again. Everything inside him has wound tighter than a wristbow. He makes a sound. As he moves to the god’s hand. He can’t help it. His breath whines from him. Not a scream. So very far from a scream. There is something dark and fierce and triumphant in the Outsider’s expression. Something _feral_. His wrist twists, and Corvo wrenches apart in his hands.

He floats. For the longest time. Somewhere … beyond the Void. Beyond anywhere. He drifts, in a rush of pleasure. A complete absence of pain.

And comes back, to the touch of a soft, cool hand at his cheek.

“Call for me,” the Outsider whispers. Touching a kiss lightly to his cheek. “When you are caught where you do not wish to be. My dear Corvo. Call for me.”

And his god has asked, so there is nothing Corvo can do but answer.


End file.
